


Lampshades, Credit Cards, Kisses, and Various Other Human Oddities

by Katie (katieandsav)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, human!Cas, idk i was bored, katie's shit, schmoooop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:36:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katieandsav/pseuds/Katie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is rather perplexed by this new human way of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lampshades, Credit Cards, Kisses, and Various Other Human Oddities

Being a human was completely and utterly frustrating, Castiel decided, as he waited in the grocery store line with worn-thin patience.

As an angel, food was simply a pleasure, rather than a necessity. Now, he had to have the stuff to live.

The worst part was that he couldn't rant to the Winchesters, since they'd been humans all their lives. (Cas was unsure of whether to pity them or envy them for their ignorance toward having a less-needy existence—on one hand, the brothers had never had to adapt to this lifestyle; on the other, they'd always been stuck with these weak bodies.)

So, there stood the fallen angel, decked out in his standard trench coat, a grocery basket in his grasp and an expression so solemn it verged on a scowl on his face. However, his silent sulking was interrupted by the sound of two familiar voices bickering.

Who else could it possibly be, other than the Winchesters?

Not a moment after the sound of the boys' voices cut through the low rumble of the crowd did Sam's gigantic form appear in all its long-haired, broad-shouldered, terrifyingly-tall glory. He was glaring down at someone, the sharpness of his brow bone adding an even more annoyed look to his scowl. "No, Dean," the younger Winchester huffed. "I said no."

Soon after, the shorter brother came into view. In his hands was a pie; upon his face was an expression somewhere between pleading and irritated. "Sammy, you always forget the pie. Always. I'm buying the goddamn pie, okay?" He glanced at the grocery line, breaking out in a grin when he saw Castiel. "Cas! Hey, Cas! Can we get the pie?" He held the packaged pastry up to show the fallen angel.

Sam gave Castiel a warning look. Castiel blatantly ignored it. "Yes," Cas affirmed. "We can get the pie, Dean, since we have the sufficient funds." Setting the grocery basket down, he retrieved the flat, rectangular piece of plastic that Sam had given him from his trench coat's pocket. "This seems to provide incredibly large amounts of money," he informed them, his tone somewhat awed as he studied the card.

Dean glanced up at his brother. "Is that a credit card?" he asked quietly.

Sam nodded.

"Does the guy know how they actually work?"

Sam shook his head. "He'll find out soon enough," he whispered to Dean. "Now put the freaking pie back."

Dean was silent for a couple moments, then announced smugly, "Driver gets his pie; shotgun shuts his cakehole." He plopped the pie in Castiel's grocery basket. "And the angel buys the food."

Sam's eyes narrowed and his lips pursed, then he crossed his arms and shifted his gaze to the magazine rack, evidently done with arguing with the lighter-haired Winchester.

Dean gave Cas a triumphant look and an over-exaggerated, conspiratorial wink. "Look who's got his bitchface out," he crooned, nudging Sam in the ribs with his elbow.

Sam whacked Dean's hand away, rolling his eyes. Castiel frowned, and was about to reply when there was a bored call of "next!" from one of the cashiers.

Cas, pleased that his wait was finally over, picked up the basket and trotted over to the cashier. He set it down on the counter.

The cashier, a short, caramel-skinned woman as wide as she was tall, looked at him.

"I," Castiel started slowly, "would like to purchase these items."

"Okay," the woman said. She continued to look at him. Cas shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze, at a loss for what to do next.

There was some snickering from behind him, its source probably being the Winchesters.

After a moment, the cashier sighed exasperatedly and pulled the basket toward herself, unloading the items. Her movements were short and sharp with annoyance.

Castiel wondered if she had expected him to unpack the basket. However, he didn’t see the use of lamenting the what-if, because the woman was almost done ringing up his items, anyway.

Finally, she announced tiredly, "Three-hundred and ten dollars, ninety-nine cents."

Castiel was about to reply when there was a choking sound from behind him. He spun around to see Sam sputtering, the soda can in his hand denting from his startled, tightened grip on it. Dean whacked him on the back and stared at Cas with wide, shocked eyes.

"What the hell're you buying, Cas? Jesus!" Dean asked.

"Necessities," Castiel told him.

"Like what?"

"Er..." Cas turned back to the counter and sifted through the mountain of items on the pale grey, plastic surface. "Cutlery, crockery, some new clothes... A lampshade and pillowcases... Oh, and a cellular phone." He held up the plastic box to show the brothers. Its packaging proclaimed the device to be a Samsung Galaxy of some sort. (Castiel failed to see how a galaxy could fit inside the rectangular machine, but he decided not to question it.)

Dean looked at him for a moment. "No. No phones, no knives and forks, no plates—and for god's sake, no lampshades."

"May I get the pillowcases?"

"No pillowcases, either."

Cas felt a little crestfallen as he looked down at the bounty he’d wished to purchase, but he didn’t argue. Usually, he would just buy the items anyway, but the Winchesters knew more about being human than he did, and he trusted them to do what was best for him.

Dean marched over to Cas and scooped up the now-empty basket, shoving everything except a pack of disposable razors, shampoo, a pack of six pairs of underwear, and the pie back in it. He handed the basket to Sam. “Go put this crap back.”

Sam, who had stopped choking but was now downing his soda like it was an alcoholic beverage and he wished to get drunk, scowled at Dean over the rim of his can. “You do it!” he protested.

“Respect your elders, Sammy.” Dean smiled pleasantly, shoved the basket at the younger Winchester, and patted him on the shoulder. He turned back to the cashier. “How much is it now?” he asked, gesturing to the much smaller pile.

The cashier sighed and leaned forward in her chair, punching a new set of numbers into the machine before her. She waited for a brief moment as the sum was calculated, then read aloud the number on the screen: “Thirty-five, ninety-five.”

Dean winced. “Still bad, but better.” He reached into his pocket and thumbed through the notes in his wallet, retrieving a fifty dollar note so crumpled and worn that it looked like a shred of old fabric, rather than a piece of paper.

The woman took it and popped open the till’s drawer—the unexpected _ching_ made Castiel jump—and slowly counted up the change. Castiel started to object, started to offer to pay with his card device, but Dean just gave him a look that silenced him.

Green eyes met blue eyes. Cas felt oddly shaky, especially at the knees.

Green gaze parted from blue gaze. Castiel fixed his attention on the tiles beneath his feet, hoping the shakiness would recede.

The Winchester stuffed his change in his pocket, just as his brother returned.

“Alright.” Dean gave Cas the plastic bag. Their fingers brushed. Castiel’s heart leapt into his throat. “You two ready to go?”

Cas nodded. Apparently, Sam did, too, because Dean pivoted and walked out the store. Sam followed; Cas stayed behind a moment longer to thank the cashier, but stopped short when he saw her amused expression.

“Go get him, boy—what are you waiting for?” she said, her glossy lips curving into an honest-to-god _smile_. Castiel, startled, started to ask her what she meant, but she was already calling for the next customer.

So, the very confused fallen angel trudged out the store to the Impala. He studied it for a moment. Cas had always liked the Impala—he liked its glossy black paint, the dark leather of its seats, and the way it made Dean happy.

Every time the hunter saw his car, his eyes would light up and he would greet it like a long-time lover—“Hey, baby!” (Cas had never really understood this—the Impala was not an infant. He had decided early on not to question the Winchester, however.)

Cas slid his palm along the Impala’s sleek bumper, but lifted his hand when he felt a pair of green eyes watching him like a hawk. Along with Dean’s love for the Impala came a severe protectiveness. Castiel figured this was fair, though—the Impala was Dean’s wings, so Cas could understand why the hunter didn’t want the paint scratched or the upholstery torn or, god forbid, the exterior dented. Cas wouldn’t let anyone near his wings if they were freshly preened.

He moved to pull one of the doors open, sliding into the back seat, and inhaled deeply. The car smelled of leather and whisky and those specific Winchester scents—although they borrowed each other’s colognes often enough for them to smell similar, they each had their own specific scent, under the shared shampoo and aftershave.

Sam smelled vaguely of books—of dusty tomes and papers that had been buried away in the backrooms of libraries for decades, until the Winchesters had arrived in town.

Dean’s scent was a mixture of sweat and leather and smoke and beer and pure _musk_ , and it was a combination that shouldn’t have been pleasant but somehow was. It was a purely masculine… _Dean_ smell, and even though Cas’ sense of smell was fading to normal human capabilities, he could always identify his hunter’s scent because it was one that meant safety and care.

“Cas? Cas! You with us, man?”

Castiel blinked out of his daze and shifted his gaze from the window to look at the older Winchester, who was watching him in the rearview mirror. Dean’s tone indicated that he had spoken and had been waiting for a reply that the zoned-out Cas wasn’t prepared to give, since he hadn’t even been listening.

Castiel blinked at him again, waiting for Dean to repeat what he’d said.

Dean sighed. “Sammy’s going to the library,” he said. “And I _would_ suggest you and me go to a bar, but after the whole Chastity the Stripper saga, I don’t think that’s the best idea. So—you okay with just staying at the motel? Drink a beer or two, maybe watch something on pay-per-view?” He raised his eyebrows, awaiting Castiel’s judgement.

Cas, unsure of any other options to volunteer, just half nodded his approval.

“Alright, we got ourselves a plan,” the older Winchester announced, turning back to the windshield and tapping his palms on the steering wheel.

Dean pressed his foot down on the pedal and the Impala purred to life. Cas could feel the silky leather beneath his palm humming with harnessed power. They cruised out of the run-down gas station and onto the open road.

The drive back to the motel was uneventful; Sam and Dean discussed the current creature they were hunting—some kind of werewolf or rouxgaroux, or something of the sort—and Castiel remained silent in the back seat. The Winchesters didn’t attempt to engage him in the conversation, but that was okay with Cas—he was lost in thought.

His mind sifted through topics with a painfully human slowness—his brain skimmed over Samandriel and Naomi and Metatron and that one Nephil and the cupids and Dean.

Dean. Cas didn’t even need to look up at the hunter; his face was imprinted on Castiel’s mind—his astoundingly green eyes, his light hair, his defined jaw, and his lips. Those pouty, smirky lips that could let loose the most descriptive, profane story about one of his many female conquests, or reveal painful, buried secrets. Sometimes, Cas was baffled by the option Dean would select.

The Impala finally came to a halt outside the seedy motel that would be their residence for the night. Even though Castiel had only stayed at eight, maybe nine motels since he’d fallen, the run-down establishments were already difficult to differentiate between—cracked paint, dirty carpets and garish wallpaper, most motels were the same.

The Impala’s engine huffed asleep as it was turned off, and the fallen angel and his two hunters climbed out onto the sweaty tarmac of the parking lot. Dean shoved his keys in his pocket—evidently, he expected Sam to walk to the library—and clasped his hands behind his neck, stretching. Cas stood patiently beside him, awaiting instruction.

Sam flicked his hair out his eyes, “Okay,” he said, his words coming out on an exhale. “See you guys later. I’ll be back by around four. Maybe later, depending on the library’s opening hours.”

“Mm-hmm…” came Dean’s distracted response. He was already digging through the plastic grocery bag that was still in Cas’ arms. He grinned when he saw the pie.

Sam readjusted the way he was holding his laptop and nodded once, almost awkwardly, then turned and set off in the direction of where the library must’ve been.

Castiel frowned at the Sam’s back as the hunter walked away. “Should we accompany him?” he asked Dean.

“Nah,” the Winchester said. “He’ll be fine. He goes into some sort of… Zen mode when he’s around books. I swear he secretly enjoys reading more than sex.” Dean shrugged and walked to their motel room.

Cas, unsure of what Dean’s comment was implying, just said, “It’s possible” and followed the hunter, who was already sprawled on one of the room’s beds, flicking through TV channels.

Cas sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. He rolled his shoulders back uncomfortably.

“What’s got a pineapple up your ass, featherbutt?” Dean asked. Cas looked at him and saw that he had now torn his gaze from the cartoon on the television’s screen and was watching Cas with an unreadable expression.

“My rear is lacking in feathers,” Castiel said. “And that, in fact, is the problem. My wings are losing my feathers, and although the pain has passed, it’s still aggravating.”

Dean stared at him. “Wait, you still have your wings?”

Cas nodded.

“Didn’t you, like, lose them when you fell?”

“No. Not my actual _wings_ , Dean; they are as much a part of me as any other appendage. But I _am_ losing my feathers—and this time, they will not grow back.” He looked down. The thought still made him somewhat sad. Although his wings were never as flashy as Michael’s, or Anna’s, or even Uriel’s, he had liked his feathers—they were thick and dark and glossy, if not slightly ruffled most of the time.

“Oh,” Dean responded quietly after a moment. He hesitated. “Can I, ah, see?”

Castiel blinked. “You… Oh. I suppose…” He swallowed; he didn’t exactly want to show Dean his balding wings. If he was honest with himself, they embarrassed him. A soldier, an _angel of the Lord_ , had been reduced to the equivalent of a moulting baby bird. But he did not was to deny Dean’s request; it was almost impossible for him to say no to his hunter.

Dean must have picked up on Castiel’s discomfort, because he quickly said, “You don’t have t—”

Cas cut him off. “No, it’s fine.” He inhaled deeply and concentrated on making his wings visible. When Dean’s eyes widened, Cas took that as a sign that he’d succeeded.

He unfurled his wings slowly, stretching out first the right, then the left, careful not to knock over any lamps. He glanced behind himself to study his wings. There weren’t any visible bald spots, yet, but the sensitive skin of his wings was only covered by a single layer of disorderly, dark grey down. The large, glossy, black feathers that had once been there were gone, leaving only tufts of fluff to keep his wings warm.

Castiel dropped his gaze again. His wings were absolutely pathetic.

“Whoa…” Dean breathed after a moment of staring at Cas’ wings. “They’re huge! How do you lug those things ’round all day, man?”

Cas glanced up, vaguely surprised. His wings were of average size, maybe even below, without their thick feathers. Even Samandriel had had longer larger wings. Castiel’s only spanned out about two metres each.

“They are not cumbersome,” Cas explained, still rather confused, “and their weight is almost non-existent to me.”

Dean gave a slow nod, then got up and went over to Castiel, bending down to examine the soft fluff on his wings. “Awesome,” the hunter murmured.

Once again, Cas was taken by surprise. He didn’t think he looked “awesome”; he thought he looked like a baby pigeon. “Uh,” he said. “Thank you, De—”

He was cut off when the hunter lifted his hand and ran his fingertips lightly over Castiel’s wing. Cas stiffened for a nanosecond, but before Dean could pull his hand away, the fallen angel emitted a soft sound of contentment, his wings giving a quick little pleasured shiver, stretching out, then relaxing.

Dean watched him warily for a second, then broke out in a grin. He flattened his palm against Castiel’s wing, stroking it lightly. His green eyes were alight with excitement.

“They’re soft,” the Winchester noted. “Your wings, I mean.”

“Mmf,” Castiel agreed, too concerned with trying not to purr to muster much more. Without thinking, he curled the tips of his wings around Dean, enveloping both the hunter and himself in a cocoon of whisper-soft down.

Dean stumbled forward, blinking at Cas, then released a laugh. “What the hell was that?”

Cas felt the down on his wings puff up defensively. When his feathers were all there, one of his automatic defences was to raise them—it made him appear big and intimidating. Now, he imagined he just looked like a startled grey pompom.

Castiel moved his wings so they cocooned only himself, providing a barrier between him and Dean. He could hear the hunter chuckling. A warm palm smoothed his feathers down; cautiously, Cas stretched one of his wings out to allow himself a view of Dean’s face.

The hunter grinned at him, his fingers still messed in the feathers of the wing beside him. “Polly want a cracker?” he enquired, smirking.

“My name is Castiel,” the fallen angel deadpanned. “Not Polly.” But, suppressing a grin, he gave Dean a quick thump on the back with the tip of his left wing. Dean lost his balance and fell forward with a “Whoa!” He grabbed the lapel of Castiel’s trenchcoat but only succeeded in changing the direction of his fall and landed on top of Cas. Castiel, taken by surprise by the hunter’s sudden weight, toppled back.

“Mmf!” Cas released a startled sound, his wings flapping twice or thrice to break his fall, resulting in a picture frame being blown off the wall.

He blinked up at the Winchester sprawled on his chest. “My… my apologies for knocking you over, Dean. That was not my intention.”

“Uh,” Dean said, “no problem.” He mirrored Castiel’s blinking, his thick, dark eyelashes brushing his cheekbones. He started to get up, but stopped when he saw that Cas’ wings were still wrapped around them both. Dean looked to the fallen angel for an explanation, but Cas gave none.

Dean slowly lowered himself down again, resting his forearms on Cas’ chest to prop himself up. “So, uh, you got some real horsepower in those things, huh?”

Castiel nodded, finding it somewhat difficult to think straight. Dean’s scent was enveloping him like another pair of wings; it was making him dizzy—but in a strangely nice way. He felt the sudden urge to nuzzle his face into Dean’s neck. So he did.

The hunter was silent.

“Uh, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?” Cas mumbled into Dean’s neck. His lips brushed the warm, smooth skin; he thought he heard Dean’s breath catch.

“What’re you doing?”

“Putting my face in your neck.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Oh.”

And so they lay there for a while, fitted together like puzzle pieces.

At one point, Dean tried to rest his chin on the top of Cas’ head, but pulled back, since the position was awkward for both of them. Castiel refused to have this, though, and rolled over so he was on top of Dean and the hunter was cradled in his wings. They resumed their position: Cas’ face in Dean’s neck, his nose pressed into the curve; Dean’s chin slotted on top of Cas’ head; Cas’ palms resting on Dean’s shoulders; Dean’s right hand between Cas’ shoulderblades and his left on the small of his back.

The fallen angel was content.

The hunter broke the silence after a few minutes. “Isn’t this uncomfortable for you?” he asked, his voice a murmur. “Me lying on your wings?”

“No,” Castiel replied sleepily. “Your weight is even. It pulls on my wings slightly, yes, but it feels more like stretching after a night of sleep. I haven’t been able to fully spread them out since I fell. It is… pleasant.” He lifted his face to look at Dean.

He could feel the hunter’s entire body go still beneath him; Dean’s eyes were wide and bright. At first, Cas didn’t understand why, but when he saw Dean’s gaze dropping to his lips, he realised: their faces were very close together.

And Dean said, “Cas.”       

And Cas said, “Dean.”

And Dean said, “Do you…?”

And Cas said, “Do I what, Dean?”

And Dean said, releasing a laugh, “Shut up, featherbutt.”

So Cas did.

And Dean leaned in and kissed him.

At first, they just lay there, their lips slotted together. It was nice; Castiel liked it. But, apparently, that wasn’t all there was to it, since Dean pulled away a little and turned his face to press his lips to Cas’ again. The fallen angel panicked a little and cocked his head to one side, then the other, trying to figure out what to do. Their noses bumped and Dean’s eyes shot open, but when he saw Cas’ startled expression, a chuckle escaped his lips.

“My apologies, Dean!” Castiel said quickly. “I didn’t mean to do that wrong. I’ve only kissed Meg before and that was very brief—”

“Calm down, Cas,” he soothed. “You’re doing okay. Just… follow my lead, alright? Okay. When I lean in like this, you gotta tilt your head the other way—yeah, like that. That’s it. Okay. Let’s try this again.”

Their lips pressed together, then parted, then touched again. A rhythm developed: an unhurried, careful, patient rhythm with soft praises on Dean’s behalf whenever Cas didn’t accidentally bump their noses together. Slowly, Cas’ confidence grew, and he lifted his hands to cup Dean’s face. The hunter grinned a little at this development and slid his hands up Castiel’s back to tangle his fingers in the fallen angel’s messy dark hair.

The kiss deepened, lips parting and the tips of tongues gingerly exploring. Cas decided that it was like a dance, each movement falling into place without a word being uttered.

When Castiel made a soft sound of contentment, Dean released a quiet laugh and gave Cas’ lower lip a playful, gentle nip.

Cas inhaled sharply in surprise, a string of Enochian escaping his lips and falling into Dean’s mouth; words of adoration and love that he knew the hunter couldn’t understand but that Castiel felt he had to say because he loved Dean and he’d loved him for five years and pretending that wasn’t true was useless now because Castiel loved Dean and he loved Dean and _he loved Dean_. His wings gave a little shiver of pleasure and puffed up. The hunter laughed when he felt the fluff of Cas’ wings brushing his neck, and that sound was music to Castiel’s ears and suddenly, he didn’t care about Metatron or Naomi or Lucifer or God or _any of them_ ; he couldn’t bring himself to when the most important thing in the world, in the _universe_ , was cradled in his wings with his fingers messing up Cas’ hair even further and with his lips exploring Castiel’s own.

After a few minutes, Dean gently pulled away. Cas opened his eyes and studied him; his eyes were bright and excited and those lips curved up in a boyish grin and he was _beautiful_.

“So,” Dean said, his voice husky and low so that Castiel would be the only other person in the world to hear it. “Nice weather we’re having, huh?”

“Yes,” Cas agreed in a whisper. “But I’d much rather be inside—with you.” And it was the truth. So he showed Dean by ducking forward to press another quick kiss to his lips. Cas found it curious how Dean’s jaw was scratchy from stubble but his lips were so soft and smooth that they felt almost unreal against Castiel’s own; the side-by-side contrasts in humans were truly strange.

“Yeah, being in here teaching an angel of the Lord how to make out ain’t half bad, either.”

As Dean returned Castiel’s kiss, however, the fallen angel couldn’t help wondering what would happen when his hunter came down from the giddiness that kissing seemed to induce. Cas didn’t think he could watch Dean flirting with girls, now; it had been difficult before, though he’d always assumed that was because flirting was against an angel’s nature. He loved the Winchester and _he_ wanted to be the one to become drunk on Dean’s kisses and make Dean drunk on his.

Slowly, Cas pulled away and regarded Dean. He’d told him he loved him already, but telling him in a language he’d understand was going to be much more difficult; now, he faced rejection. “Dean,” he said quietly.

The hunter’s grin melted away and a look of worry overtook his features. “Cas?”

“Dean, I… I love you, Dean.” He shut his eyes and looked down, waiting for the rejection he prayed with all his heart wouldn’t come.

There was silence… then a laugh. A laugh? Was Dean laughing at _him_? Did Dean think he was silly for falling in love after just one kiss? He couldn’t! Castiel didn’t just _start_ loving Dean twenty minutes ago; he’d loved him since he raised him out of Hell—he’d loved him since he’d first seen his soul, and he’d loved him since he’d left his mark on Dean’s shoulder.

“I love you, too, dumbass,” Dean said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Cas lifted his gaze to stare at him. “But now we should probably figure out how to tell Sammy. Or should we just let him figure it out for himself?”

“It does not concern me,” Castiel replied. And it honestly didn’t, because he loved his hunter, and his hunter loved him back—and that was all he cared about.


End file.
